


Poppy loaf and poetry

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't worry Sam, Rosie knows an idiot when she sees one." How Frodo learnt the lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppy loaf and poetry

"Don't go thinking that I'm afraid to ruin velvet, Mr Frodo, because I'm not."

It took Frodo a few bewildered seconds to work out what she was getting at. Then he smiled.

"Ah, yes, perhaps that's true, but I know you wouldn't waste a mug of ale." The considerable wit of his words was slightly dampened by the occasional slur on the consonants. Frodo rested his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm and looked up at her with a cheerful grin, the other hand still reached out as if to pinch the swell of Rosie's rump. He had been about to do just that when she'd made her threat of a good drenching, and the temptation seemed well worth the price.

"Don't you think of it," warned Rosie again, stepping out of his reach with a swish of her skirts. It was getting on to the wee hours of the morning, but the Dragon was as full as it ever was of shouting and smoke and laughter. "Cook's just made another of those poppy loaves you like so much, want me to bring out a slice?"

Frodo was drinking alone, or as close to alone as a table in the middle of the crowded tavern could be considered. He'd come in at evening's fall with Mr Brandybuck and Mr Bolger, both of whom had departed home to comfortable beds hours ago. Mr Merry had gone home alone, as was his way on the rare occasions Mr Pippin wasn't with him, and Mr Fredegar had courted the attention of Pansy Twofoot, the other barmaid at the Dragon, and walked out with her arm in his. Rosie had expected Frodo to leave at the same time his friends did, but he seemed content to watch the folk around him.

"Some poppy loaf would be lovely, Rose," Frodo nodded. "Thankyou."

Rosie navigated the path back to the kitchen, laughingly shaking her head at the pleas of a young patron willing to trade a tuppence for a kiss. "They cost more than that, lad, and more'n you've got in your pockets besides."

Anica Redleaf, who did the washing and sweeping, gave Rosie a conspiratorial wink as she cut a slice of the fresh loaf.

"So it's Cotton that's needed to snare a Baggins, then."

"When you've worked the counter you'll know that those who get a smile for their flirting are those who come back for another round." Rosie scraped a dash of butter over the hot slice and put the plate on her tray. "And Mr Frodo's harmless enough. I reckon he's lonelier than any of us suppose."

"Anica! Run down the cellar and fetch some more bottles!" Cook called. Anica rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron and turning to get back to work.

"And it's not your own lonely state that's making you flirt right back, o' course," Anica shot over her shoulder as a parting remark, one eyebrow curved up like a bough in wind.

"Hussy!" Rosie called good-naturedly, though it was true enough that she missed her Sam something fierce. He'd been gone for a fortnight, up north to help his brother Hal with some crop trouble.

"Here you go, eat up," she said, planting the plate of poppy bread on the table before Frodo.

"Yes ma'am." Frodo was, if it were possible, looking even more drunk than he had a moment before. Rosie was a breath away from retorting when there was a loud crash from the other side of the room, followed by a crack of broken crocks and the outraged shout of the innkeeper.

"Right, that's it, I said if there were any more breakages tonight that the doors would be shut til breakfast, and I meant it! All of you, clear out!"

Frodo's eyes widened in alarm. Rosie turned her own up to address the low rafters of the roof in annoyance.

"No sense of proportion at all, some folks. Come on, then, we'd best scurry out before he shows us any more of his mood." Rosie offered her hand down. "Up you get."

"But... my loaf..." Frodo complained, stumbling to his feet.

"Well, bring it with you. All respect, Mr Frodo, but I've seen tweens who could hold their ale better than this." Rosie pulled one of his drink-heavy arms across her shoulders and guided him out into the still air of the night. "And you almost forty-seven and all."

Usually, Rosie didn't care a whit what happened to those too drunk to stumble home at closing time. They'd sleep in a ditch, or wake up in a stile with a pig at their ear, and be none the worse for it. But Mr Frodo looked as if he'd likely manage to roll down a hill into a briar patch, or wander out into the woods and lose himself. Rosie sighed, thinking longingly of her own neat little bed, and began to lead Frodo up the Hill.

"You're very beautiful, Rose," Frodo muttered between lurching steps. He made an attempt at speaking what Rosie supposed must have been an Elvish poem, then gave up and used common words. "For nothing this wide universe I call, save thou, my Rose, in it thou art my all."

"Regular fallowhide, you are, not a sensible thought to you." Rosie grumbled without malice, rather flattered to have received the compliment, fumbled as it was, and continued on her quest to get Frodo up to his front door. He stopped, biting into the slice of poppy loaf and chewing thoughtfully. Rosie tapped her foot in exasperation. "Sam would have my head if he heard I'd left you on the road in this state, and I've got no time to waste, so move along."

"Sam, Sam," Frodo sighed. "You hardly notice the light in a room until it leaves sometimes, Rose. It's just there, as usual as the wind and sun, and then," Frodo made a vague gesture with his hands, almost smacking her in the stomach. "Then it's just gone. I don't like it."

"No hobbit's fond of change," Rosie soothed. "But our Sam's coming back by week's end, Mr Frodo, so don't you fret."

Frodo burped.

Eventually, with much tugging and coaxing and gentle threatening, Rosie got Frodo up to the Bag End gate. He blinked a few times, surprised to find his home thus materialised.

"Right. I'll be off home then. Sleep well, sir." Rosie nodded, covering a yawn with her hand. Frodo rubbed his eyes and reached out to catch ahold of her sleeve.

"Don't go, Rose. Stay for the night." His fingers drifted down her arm to stroke at the inside of her wrist. "So soft..."

Rosie rolled her eyes and lifted his hand away. "The night's almost finished," she said with kind firmness. "And your head will hate you enough come sunlight without a barmaid in your bed."

"No, please," Frodo begged.

"You're not yourself, Mr Frodo."

"I am." Frodo swayed against the gate, jaw set. "One kiss, then. Just a kiss, sweet Rose, your petals..."

"All right, all right." Rosie decided that anything would be better than more drunken poetry at this point. She closed her eyes, feeling Frodo's hot breath on her skin, her lips trembling with an anticipation she could hardly admit to herself. It wasn't right, to take advantage when he was in this state, but perhaps no ill would come of it.

But her lips felt nothing but air, the timid bump of Frodo's mouth against her cheek gone before she could stop to think of it. Soft, damp, the kiss of a shy boy. He smiled at her, eyes glittering from drink, and turned to go inside his garden. Rosie stood and watched as he stumbled to the door, then began her own trek down to bed.

"You are a puzzle, Mr Frodo," she muttered to herself, her fingertips brushing at the tingling spot on her cheek.


End file.
